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Thursday, May 15, 2014

Beautiful/Not Beautiful

My features are not perfect and regular and symmetrical.
They are not balanced and harmonious. They are not delicate and feminine.

My teeth are neither perfectly white nor perfectly straight.
They are a bit too large for my face, a bit disproportionate and overly
prominent. They are crooked.

My skin is not creamy and smooth and unblemished. It bears
scars, wrinkles, sun damage, stretch marks. There are furrows on my brow and
crow’s feet at the corners of my eyes. I am developing a bit of a turkey
wattle.

My hair is gray, and often unwashed. It is rarely styled, or
even blow-dried.

My waist is not tiny, nor are my breasts full and ripe and “perky”
any longer. I have a pooch, the remnants of two pregnancies after the age of 40.
There is not even a hint of a gap between my thighs. My muscles, such as they
are, are hidden beneath a layer of pudge.

There are bunions on my misshapen feet. My right hand is
twisted and gnarled, like an old woman’s.

There is no physical perfection in me.

But my eyes have seen my children grow. They have watched
over, and protected, and soothed. They have gone without sleep as I rocked and
calmed and quieted a fussy child. My ears have listened to childish prattle,
and childish wisdom. They have stayed alert for cries in the night. There are
marks around my mouth, from laughing, and from weeping. The wrinkles around my
eyes are from smiling, and from pain.

My teeth often show in a smile, a smile of pride, a smile of
joy, a smile of relief. I smile back when my children smile at me, when I see
them enjoying life, enjoying the world around them, enjoying the thrill of
discovery. My smile may not be perfect, or beautiful, but it is genuine. It is heartfelt.
It is sincere. It is joyful.

My skin may not bear the softness of youth, but it bears the
kisses of children and the handprints of small people gazing intently into my
eyes as they ask me questions about life and the world and their own existence.
My scars are the reminder of the pains of my own childhood, reflected in my
children’s pain – pain resulting from their curiosity and their exploration of
the world around them and the imperfection of the same – and in the joys of
discovery. The sun damage is from hours spent outside myself, curious and
exploring. The stretch marks are badges of honor from carrying my children in
my own body, of the months of nausea and anticipation and tears and excitement and
fear and delight and watching my body change before my eyes. The furrows on my
brow are echoes of my worries about my children – will they be happy? Successful?
Employed? Lucky in love? Will their morals echo my own? Will they value God? Education?
Family? Philanthropy? Will they be good people? Am I being a good mother? Am I
teaching them what they need to know to have a good life? Did I raise them so
they will make the world a better place?

My hair may be gray and unkempt, but its color is unnoticed by the small
hands who stroke it as they fall asleep, who brush it and comb it and put combs
and clips and barrettes in it, who kiss it and nuzzle it and tug at it and are
fascinated by it.

The size of my waist doesn’t matter to small people who
throw their arms around that same waist, who wrap their legs around it as I
play horsey. My breasts may not be as pert as they once were, but they provide
a soft pillow for a sleepy or sad child. What I think of as “pudge,” they see
as embraceable, comforting softness. The limited muscle I have is enough for a
piggyback ride, a toss in the air, a boost into the car.

The bunions on my feet don’t matter, as long as my children
can stand on my feet as we waltz or tango around the room, laughing gaily. The
twisted fingers of my hand can still comfort and soothe and snuggle. They can
still steady unsure feet, swing a small body into the air, “scritch” a tired
back, soothe a fevered brow.

There is no physical perfection in me. And yet, I am here. I
care. I comfort. I love.